Ice
by The Blackest Frost
Summary: A heat wave hits New York. Late at night, sweltering in her apartment at Stark Towers, Natasha Romanov receives a visitor. Post Thor: The Dark World. Warning, later chapters NSFW, rating to increase.
1. Chapter 1

The heat was suffocating, laying over her like heavy blankets. Every breath was laced with weight, no amount of tossing or turning was giving her respite. The high powered fan was doing little more than pushing around hot air, sliding over her flesh like unwanted hands, coating her skin in sweat.

She missed Russia.

Not often by any means. She didn't miss the Red Room, the lies, the training. She didn't have memories of home cooked meals to fall back on, so her own borsch and pirogi were sufficient. She had no longing to hear her mother tongue unless on a mission. Most importantly, Stark's readiness to import her beloved Zyr meant she could enjoy her origin country's earthy vodka whenever warranted. Hell, he'd even get her Kauffman's in the years it was produced.

No, she didn't miss Russia for the most part.

Except the weather.

She peels back the covers, hissing in annoyance as they try to stick to her sweat slicked flesh. She stands, ignoring the prickle of her hair against her shoulders. Longer now, it falls around her shoulders and down her back in dark red curls. Fiery ringlets stick to her cheeks, the rest trailing down her skin and t-shirt.

She's not sure why she grew it back this length, and resists the urge to hack it off in the bathroom.

She stretches, reaching upwards carefully. Ensures every muscle and joint is loosened and engaged before padding quietly to the kitchen. She doesn't bother finding pants, knowing she'll strip off the thin t-shirt and sleep in her panties by the time she's done. The black panties are stretched between hipbones, and she feels a moment of annoyance at the weight loss. Previously ample curves are leaner now, enough so that Bruce has quietly pulled her aside and asked if she was feeling ok.

The stress is getting to her, as it has been all of them. The set-up slow and painful, the waiting was enough to set anyone's teeth on edge.

She misses her hips.

As she stretches she curses the broken air conditioner in the apartment, briefly debates calling Stark just to piss him off. He's the one who wanted them all in the tower with him, the one who decided to create a floor for each of them.

She knows she'll be curtly informed that he's not her maintenance man. She's already put in a request to JARVIS, and he's more prompt than Tony anyway. By lunch time she'll have her beautiful air conditioner up and running.

Which does nothing for her now at one in the morning.

She reaches the kitchen, pausing when she feels a slight kink in one leg. The overheated air of her apartment is stifling, but it does warm her muscles enough for better stretching. This time she lays one hand on the bench, ignoring the sweat in her eye as she arches forwards and then backwards, before lifting the offending leg high in the air. Developpe, perfectly executed.

She doesn't miss her false life, doesn't miss her prima ballerina days, but her muscles will forever claim the control and elegance wrought by years of practice.

She runs one hand through her curls as the other reaches up for her glass. She allows herself to linger at the freezer, inhaling icy air and feeling her sweat cool against her skin. The vodka bottle is delightfully chilled, and she allows herself to lean against the bench for a moment, pressing the cold glass against her neck and sighing.

Mother's milk.

She lets out a slow moan as she slips the bottle to the other side, the remaining liquid sloshing slightly in the heated air. She enjoys herself for a second more before suddenly stilling.

This bottle was bought today, a thank you gift from Thor for helping him select jewellery for Dr Foster (or Lady Jane, as he insisted on calling her). It had been kind and unnecessary, but Natasha would never refuse a gift from him. Especially not with what was coming; he needed to feel he could get things right.

Thor had even attempted to talk to Clint about her preferred brands, the archer just referring him to Tony, a wise call. But the bottle had been beautifully wrapped, and she had smiled when it was given.

And now she paused.

Because this bottle had been opened.

"I hope you don't mind." The voice is rougher than usual, silky tones laced with specks of gravel.

A different kind of ballet now. Pulling up replaced with spinning downwards, grand battement replaced with locking on target. No less beautiful but far more deadly.

Lounging in her arm chair like the fucking king he thinks he is, shirt unbuttoned and glass of Kauffman's Luxury Vintage Vodka clutched in long, pale fingers, is Loki.


	2. Chapter 2

His eyes are slightly hooded, his posture far too relaxed, long legs spread wide and taking up far too much of her floor space. There's no trace of his armour. Instead, he's dressed in a white shirt left partially unbuttoned, black suit pants matching the jacket thrown over the arm of the chair. An emerald green tie has been loosened, the opened top buttons of his shirt exposing his neck. Perfectly shined shoes complete the look, for all intents and purposes a well-dressed (_far too well dressed_) man rather than vengeful demi-god.

In the dim light emanating from her bedroom his eyes gleam far too brightly. Her arms are steady, the gun she keeps taped to the underside of her bench now firmly trained between his eyes.

"Loki."

His head tips forward, one hand forming an elegant flourish.

"The very same."

His voice is rougher than normal, husky and rich, slicing through the hot air of her dark apartment.

He's not carrying any visible weapons, though she's not fool enough to think that means she has the upper hand. Somewhere between the increased strength, the long-lived near immortality, and, oh yeah, the fucking _magic_, she knows she's not out of the woods.

She's got outs; she has enough weaponry hidden and combat ability to buy herself some time (_she thinks_). But he's got the upper hand, even slouched inelegantly wearing a suit as if he were born in it.

Still, he's not standing up, nor is he doing much more than taking a good hit of the drink in his hands.

Icy blue eyes rake over her form, tongue coming out to run over his teeth as he grins slowly, languidly. If she didn't know any better she'd say he'd managed to get himself drunk, though obviously not on the pilfered bottle now abandoned on her bench. She's seen Thor in action; he can work his way through the better part of a bottle shop before being tipsy.

Which is largely why he's one of the more popular customers around town.

So Loki's been out, been busy, been doing something that's lead him…here.

To her.

One eyebrow arches and Natasha is suddenly very aware of her lack of clothing. It shouldn't feel strange, after all, he's seen her naked before, though more in the metaphorical sense.

"_Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"_

"_Love is for children; I owe him a debt."_

Perhaps another woman would feel shy, be overcome with some semblance of modesty.

She sees an opening.

He's here for something, he's always after something. And since she's all out of mystical forces and magical energies, she has to assume it's information of some kind.

The eyes trail over her wrists and back to her neck.

Or perhaps something else.

She slowly lowers her weapon, green eyes never leaving blue, and places it quietly on the kitchen bench. She lets her hips sway as she moves across from him, hauling herself up to sit on the bench nearest the armchair. The height puts her above him, and she leans back on her hands, allowing her t-shirt to ride up and expose a sliver of her stomach. Even in her thin SHIELD t-shirt and black panties, even without her usual curves, she still knows the weapon she has on her hands. She keeps her face still as one hand raises her hair, the other fanning the back of her neck.

Any other day he'd be cutting her to pieces with word knives, today his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes lock on the sliver.

She hides a knowing smile. Perfect.

"Long night?" She gestures to the suit.

He cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowing. The movement sends shadows sliding across his face, highlighting the already sharp lines and gaunt features.

She wonders if she'd cut her hand slapping him.

His voice is calculating and dark.

"Are we exchanging pleasantries, Agent Romanoff?"

She shrugs, pleased that his eyes follow the line of her shoulders, slipping along her collar bones and down the neckline of the t-shirt. She pulls her shoulders back slightly, thin material straining across her chest.

"You appear in my apartment and steal my best vodka. I figure pleasantries are more in your interest than mine."

His lips twitch and he nods slightly, raising the glass again unapologetically. She's seeing something that she can't quite put her finger on, something her brain is telling her is important. He licks his lips again, eyes trailing down her legs so intensely she can almost feel the ghost of a touch along her ankle.

"Yes, well, my night has been," he pauses, brow furrowing as he looks into some unknown distance. "Long."

He looks back up at her with a coaxing smile. "And I'd hardly call it stealing."

She cocks a brow, a silent question.

He shrugs, "Pre-emptive hosting, perhaps."

She takes a sip of her own glass, well groomed brow still raised.

"Maybe you're overestimating my willingness to host you."

Keep him talking, he needs to be talking.

She can see it in the clench of his jaw, in the way he's staring at her thighs, in the grip of his hand around the glass. Long fingers threaten to destroy the fragile material, forearms exposed where his sleeves have been rolled up, straining with tension.

Behind the smirks and sultry glances there's a kind of vicious desperation.

She presses her glass against her cheek, the combination of his eyes and the heat in the apartment making it difficult to think.

She's seeing something and not quite seeing it.

His usual purr comes out more as a low growl. "Agent Romanoff, I'm hurt. Here I thought we had a certain…connection."

She draws up one leg slowly, sliding her toes up her inner thigh before resting her foot on the bench top. She balances her glass on her knee, the condensation slipping down over her skin. With her free hand she pulls her hair away from her neck, fanning herself again, shaking a tumble of curls over her shoulder.

One long leg shifts minutely, and she resists the urge to follow the line to his belt, or just below. He tips back the last of the glass, turning his head slightly without letting his eyes leave hers, the intensity both a confirmation and concern. She can see his throat in sharp relief, all shadows, dips and hollows as he swallows the last of the vodka.

She sees it now.

The apartment has to be well over 100 degrees, the air barely moving despite the open windows. He's wearing that shirt, pants and boots. He's only removed the jacket for comfort of movement.

He's not sweating.

Natasha is unsure what to do with that information.

She draws uses her free hand to peel her t-shirt slightly upwards, exposing more skin under the pretense of wanting cooler air. His eyes follow the movement, tongue darting out again, and she goes in for the kill.

"I don't connect with dead men."

The heat seems to amplify her already husky voice, warming the words enough that they take a minute to sink in. It's out there now, what neither of them have been saying, and when the words hit his eyes narrow, mouth twisting into another cruel smirk.

Suddenly he's standing, glass discarded with a loud smash, his movements far too fast for his inebriated state. He's across the room in a flash, before she can grab her gun, before she can blink. Her mind has only a second to take in long legs striding, arms reaching, before suddenly her glass joins its mate on the ground as broad hands with long fingers wrap around her throat and wrist.

_Such a waste of Kauffman._

Any other day she would have had a knife at his femoral artery, no less than three blades currently in reach at various hiding points. Any other day he'd be laid out and gasping.

But not today.

Her eyes close and she shudders. Bliss.

For a second she's unsure if he's worked some kind of spell, so cool and icy is his touch. His grip on her neck is tight enough it should cause alarm, her wrist bones bowing under the pressure as cold eyes lock her in place. She can feel his breath as he leans in closer, chilling the sweat against her skin.

The hand at her throat tightens and shifts, his body now pressed between her legs, cooling the flesh of her inner thighs.

"Your silence, Agent, or else-"

He stops dead at the sound that leaves her mouth.

She's unsurprised and unashamed at the throaty moan, the way her chest arches against him, the way her thighs tighten around him. But the icy eyes are now filled with shock, stopped dead, completely unable to process the teeth biting down on her full bottom lip as her body is perfectly, deliciously cooled.

She holds his gaze, knowing her own is hooded and sultry, tilting her head upwards. He doesn't move back as she brings her face even closer to his own, the cold emanating from his skin like a fucking elixir in her sauna of an apartment. His eyes seem to glaze slightly as her mouth draws closer.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"


	3. Chapter 3

She watches him swallow as if in slow motion, Adams apple bobbing as her thighs squeeze slightly tighter still. The hand around her neck remains but the arm lowers slightly, inadvertently skimming against her chest and eliciting another hum of approval from her throat.

She feels a pulse against her thigh, thick and hard and all kinds of chilling.

She can definitely work with this.

Her voice is a purr that, for once, she's not faking. "Please," she hisses and arches her back. "Go on."

He's towering over her, eyes changing from surprised to curious and now dark again. She's on dangerous ground with this Loki, power tripped and not fully sober, suddenly discovering a new curiosity to be…

Explored.

His lips lower until his jaw is pressing hard against hers, cool breath in her ear as his voice slips around her like an icy blanket.

"Is there a problem, Agent Romanoff?"

She can barely breathe, wanting more of the ice that makes him. His neck smells of light cologne and vodka, fresh and clean and everything he is not.

His low chuckle vibrates against her cheek, and she gives in to the urge to squirm. The faux surprise in his voice brings back some of its normal silk, smug and snarky all at once.

"My how she changes; just add heat. How simple it would be, to use this, to hear you screaming my name while your teammates sleep."

She bites back a cutting comment, knowing he's all the more likely to reveal himself while enjoying the feeling of power.

She feels no shame in the pleasure she's taking from it, far too aware of the end game, of what's at stake.

And the fact that her air con is still busted.

His tension is humming through his body; she can feel that desperation she saw earlier in the way his grip tightens, the way he inhales deeply the scent of her hair, the way he tries to ground himself, distance himself with arrogance and mischief.

"I'll make you scream my name."

She closes her eyes as the hand around her wrist slips up her arm before moving to her waist, skimming the underside of her breast through the thin t-shirt. The one at her neck slips up slightly, long fingers gripping her hair.

"Open your eyes, Agent."

He's looking at her with that mix of hunger and amused curiosity, tugging slightly at her hair, cooling the back of her neck.

"This is longer."

It's neither a question nor statement, but she nods, twisting her head slightly to lean into his touch, a mewl of pleasure escaping her lips when he tugs slightly harder. He turns her head roughly, fixing his eyes on hers, lips almost close enough to touch. His voice is sharp but she can hear the undertone, lust and drink tearing sex from his vocal cords.

"I prefer it this way."

One brow arches. "I'll keep that in mind."

His grin of approval confirms what he's wanting; it is, as always, to matter. To be something, anything, that affects this universe. She doubts he'd ever delude himself to believe that now, in this moment, she loves him (_or vice versa_). But as he shifts between her legs, standing taller, eyes filled with purpose, she knows he can see; she wants him.

_Circling one another._

_Taking his threats, his misogyny, his malicious intent and letting him take it out on her. Let him wrest from her those darkest secrets they believe she fears, let her weave her word webs until he stumbles and falls._

"_You're a monster."_

"_Oh no, you brought the monster."_

She had beaten him that day, unmade him. She knew retribution would come.

The hand at her waist is slipping under her t-shirt, and she raises her hands as he moves it upwards. The fabric hits the floor as cool fingers trail across her hipbones, her waist, testing the weight of her breasts before plucking at her nipples. For a second his brow furrows in concentration, as if trying to carve the sight into memory, but then long fingers are rolling and twisting, forcing her hips to buck as jolts of pleasure shoot to her crotch.

Perhaps retribution isn't so bad.

Blue eyes study her face as she hisses and shifts, desperate for more contact, more ice, more of him. Occasionally she'll see awe, perhaps even shock, as her hands grip the edge of the counter and she presses against him, desperate for more.

Mostly, she sees him studying her with feral concentration.

One arm slips up her back, bracing her, fingers wrapping around the back of her neck. She hears somebody say please and realises she's tilting her head, exposing her neck, needing more now.

Another low chuckle.

"Agent, I think I like hearing you beg."

A witty retort dies before it can even be born as icy lips bypass her own, heading straight for her throat. Teeth sink into her neck, her collarbones, before continuing downwards.

The hand against her neck pulls her down, her back bowing until her head is almost against the granite surface, legs wrapping around his waist to keep her balance. She hears him let out a hiss when she tightens her grip, a gasp escaping her own throat as she feels the cool hardness of him pressing against her heated core. She bucks as teeth close over her nipple, at once delicate and sharp. She hears him inhale her scent before continuing his assault, allows herself a private smile before his ministrations force her to cry out.

When an icy hand skims down across her hipbones she bites her lip, frozen for a second as cold fingers twist against her panties. A loud tear echoes through the apartment and suddenly she is exposed, bowed against the counter top, feeling the spreading chill that can only be attributed to some spell he's casting against the granite.

She feels him smirk against her breast as she gasps, the sensation of one cool finger stroking her folds enough to wring the air from her lungs. When his teeth continue their good work, when his other hand tangles in her hair, when he slips two fingers inside her, she can't help the Russian expletive.

She can't help but feel like a toy, an instrument, buck naked as he stands fully dressed, as he plays her. Every sigh, gasp, moan that he wrings from her throat seem to make him harder, the heated air of the apartment warring with the cool digits he slips inside her. Her body bowed like this presents her chest to her perfectly, some kind of sacrificial lamb on the alter of his ego.

"_You sure you can do this?" Steve, worried but willing to defer to her decisions._

_Images of long fingers and dancing eyes, word webs and the promise of soon._

"_Yes, I can do it."_

The hand around the back of her neck tightens, bringing her body flush against his, her hands gripping her shoulders as the pulling begins to spiral downwards. The hand slips around to its former home at the front of her neck, twisting her jaw and forcing her eyes to his as his movements speed up slightly. One calloused thumb slides over her clit as his fingers curl inside her, hitting too much at once and leaving her a squirming mess. The building is too much, the pressure too great, and she can't take much more.

He gives her a cruel smirk as he narrows his eyes. "Come."

God help her, she does.

Her keening cry tears through the apartment, body anchored in place by strong hands so cold she's surprised they don't sizzle upon touching her heated skin.

As the spots in her eyes begin to fade she works to clear her head, focusing on the smug, self-satisfied smile he's shooting her. She allows herself to curl forwards against his chest slightly, running fingers up the edges, skimming over buttons.

She can feel the flush to her skin, the way her hair is sticking to her face. She knows her eyes must be heavily lidded, bottom lip far too red from where she'd nearly bitten through. She leans back slightly, giving him a proper view of her body, legs still wrapped firmly around his waist, his erection straining between them.

"Agent Romanoff, what would you precious SHEILD think of you now?"

She doesn't bother responding, allowing her fingers to briefly explore the pale planes of chest left exposed by his slightly opened shirt. Flat muscle, firm under soft skin. One hand twists around the tie, emerald silk twining through her fingers.

He seems thrown by her lack of shame, of remorse, and she throws him an arch look.

"They'd remember why they hired me."

His eyes narrow and then widen as he feels the blade pricking against his femoral artery. A look of disbelief crosses his face before he looks ever so slightly impressed.

"You're fast with a blade."

She shrugs, the movement sending more curls over her chest, the delicious ice of his body still making her mouth water. Her lips twist slightly.

"I'm not so bad with spears, either."

She can see him torn between lust and fury, the reminder of how she'd used the sceptre to shut down the machine apparently fresh in his mind. But she can tell it's the former, in light of the latter, that is filling him with rage.

His face settles into a cruel smirk.

"Perhaps I should call out to them, your precious Barton, Stark, my dear brother…perhaps they could rescue you. They could find you like this, reeking of sex, bare naked and covered in my marks."

She shoots him a small smile.

"You could, but you won't." It's not a threat or challenge, but a statement of fact.

She pushes forward, the movement of the blade forcing him to take a step back, and lowers herself from the bench. Bare foot and naked she's aware that she seems even smaller than usual, craning her neck to meet his eyes as she feels him taking in the sight of her.

"And why won't I?"

She crooks one finger, enjoying the way he lowers himself seemingly against his will. She lets her hand run up, around his neck, tangling in the soft hair as her lips find his ear. The knife is kept pressed carefully against his leg, though she's impressed by his ability to maintain an erection even in the face of potential mutilation.

She supposes it's a compliment.

His breathing is slightly ragged as she hums into his ear.

"Because, Loki," she grazes her teeth across his earlobe, enjoying the coolness almost as much as the shudder she feels from him. "We're not done here."

Still trapped between him and the bench, she feels one cold hand running up her waist, gripping over her hipbones hard enough to bruise as she shifts against his hardness.

His voice is rougher still, thick and tense. "No?"

The Black Widow lays out a web in broad daylight, deliberately clear and painfully obvious in the darkness of the sweltering apartment.

"I haven't screamed your name, yet."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **A huge thanks to those reviewing so far! I'm so sorry to no have responded yet, has time limits for new authors etc. And to all guests, so appreciative, thank you!

I thought we might need to check in on Loki…

* * *

His night has been…long.

First he'd been attending several political parties, quietly infiltrating and planting seeds for future use. Midgard was easiest taken with a silver tongue over blue cube, and he was pleased to shuck the chains that Thanos' torture had left around him. No control, not now; now he was free to go about things his way.

Hard won as it had been.

The last of them had been less of a political party and more of a study in human interactions. The alcohol, though not as strong as on Asgard by far, had been plentiful. He'd enjoyed exploring the various spirits created by Midgardians, watching as expensive men and women seduced and laid plans to destroy powerful women and men.

So base, so quick to be torn to pieces over the hint of a taste of ecstasy.

He's not sure whether he reviles them or envies them. The simplicity of it is stunning.

He'd had no shortage of attempts on his own body, well aware of the power in a well-tailored suit and easy smile. Sly smiles from equally handsome men, sultry stares from women clad in silk dresses and silkier perfume. Several attempts met with various levels of politeness, and the occasional quiet suggestion. More traps laid, more plans set in motion.

Wedding rings slipped off so easily.

The last had been younger, the woman giving him a faux shy smile that still required work should it ever be effective. By then the alcohol had warmed his blood enough that he was willing to assimilate appropriately, allowing her to lead him to a dark corner.

He'd permitted the over eager fingers skimming his lapels, the breathy words uttered while sharp eyes had watched him every move for a potential advantage. Money, power, accommodation…the wants were clear.

So clear, so very blatant and easy to discern. Alternating between faked shyness and heady seduction, everything an act played out throughout the room.

And now here.

He'd stepped back, hands in pockets, and swayed while he regarded her blonde curls and ample curves. Brown eyes looked at him in confusion, and not a small hint of desperation. She'd opened her mouth to question him when he'd leaned forward, fingers twining around a single golden ringlet before stroking a thumb along her collarbone.

She'd shivered. "Your hands, they're so cold."

"_But you figured I'd come?"_

_Her voice is low, husky, deliciously cool and well removed. He turns, enjoying the sight of her. Barton's description had done her no justice, not when green eyes flashed and full lips formed a firm line. Not with that hair._

"_After. After whatever tortures Fury can concoct. You would appear as a balm, as a friend, and I would cooperate."_

_He lets her see his disdain for her. _

_Later, as he asked for a drink, he watched her. Slim fingers clasping the sceptre, eyes flashing as she surveyed the damage left over the city. Green eyes taking in his lack of conviction, the tiny knife he'd stabbed into his brother, the awareness of Selvig's fail safe._

_He'd been a fool to underestimate the spider, and he'd paid dearly for it. _

_He couldn't say he minded._

Another ringlet touched gently, and he shot her a pitying smile. "Wrong colour."

The alcohol had heated his blood and set his heart beating in a strong, deadly rhythm. The thought of sharp green eyes revealing nothing, of words webs laid out for him to trip up on, of her delicacy and finesse in wringing his plans from him.

He needs more.

_Running, always running. Hiding, disguising, adapting and adjusting. Asgard watched over by a Simulacrum created in his father's likeness. Capable of independent actions, guarding his position as he traversed the other worlds, sought out what he needed for the next stages._

He'd disappeared, leaving behind the confused blonde in her expensive clothing and fine jewels, only to find himself here.

And what he had found…

Watching her pad quietly to the kitchen, a brief moment of balletic ability, playing out like a faint memory before she'd found her cool treat in the freezer. Smirking to himself as she let out moans of pleasure, cool glass against her skin in the stifling heat that must be unbearable for mortals.

He wonders if she knows about all the marks she's left on in, carved into his everything.

Wonders if she'd be adverse to being marked.

"I don't connect with dead men."

It's all laid bare and he knows, she knows, they know. His anger runs hot and violent, all too aware that these plans are too delicate to be meddled without, furious that he'll be dealing in death instead of discovering the way her face looks when she comes.

Ready to snap her neck when suddenly things change, tables turn, and he wonders why steam doesn't rise from her skin where he touches her.

Watching her become unmade and welcoming it, unashamed as he threatens to expose her to her teammates, surprised by her lack of response.

"And why won't I?"

She's bare now, unadorned by any clothing, any jewellery, any makeup. Completely naked before him, skin slick with sweat, breath still slightly ragged from the climax he'd wrung from her. She looks slimmer, and he's not sure he remembers her being so small.

From where she's crushed against him, knife and ample pressed equally firmly, he can see dark bruises forming on one hipbone. His erection twitches at the sight, enjoying the vision of marks left against her skin, of ownership.

No finery, no uniform, no jewels or weapons but for the blade she might be able to slow him down with briefly. Porcelin skin slick with sweat, flawless in some light, riddled with tiny scars in others, a roadmap of a dark life.

The heat of her is unlike anything he's ever felt, the weather in Manhattan leaving the island sweating and heady. She's utterly bare and unembellished and he's fairly sure he's never seen anything more exquisite in his entire, very long life.

Perfect.

The way her body responded, back bowing and fingers grasping for purchase, bucking against him without shame or modesty. The sounds she'd made, throaty and deep, pleading mewls and a final keening cry that would haunt him until the day he was marched through Hel.

He wants to taste her, wants to savour the sweat on her skin, wants to bring his fingers to his mouth and strip them bare of her spendings. He wants those lips, that neck, needs to see those breasts bouncing and feel the heat of her sighing and bending into his ice, all too aware he won't melt.

He needs to see her unmade and welcoming it.

She crooks a finger in a come hither motion, and he finds himself moving downwards, desperate to taste those full lips.

Her voice is like honey, throaty and breathless.

"Because, Loki," she grazes her teeth across his earlobe, and he feels himself jerk slightly, hands planting either side of the counter she's pressed into. The way her lips slip over his name makes him desperate to see them around his cock.

She continues, "We're not done here."

One hand moves to the impossibly small dip of her waist, chilling the smooth skin, tightening when the knife twitches against his leg.

A reminder.

He relishes the bruises this is likely causing her almost as much as the way she shifts tighter against him at the touch.

Needs to see her unmade, and welcoming it _from him_.

His voice sounds rough and ragged in his ears, all too aware that he's stepping into a trap and finding himself unwilling to care. "No?"

She leans back slightly, lips almost grazing his own as her eyes flash.

"I haven't screamed your name, yet."


	5. Chapter 5

"I haven't screamed your name, yet."

His hands twitch at his sides and she allows herself a moment to mentally catalogue the sensation of long, icy fingers wringing her climax from her.

They both know the knife won't kill him, but an opened femoral artery will cost the demi-god precious seconds to heal. They both know she'll have time to kip back to her next contingency plan.

It doesn't matter, not with that kind of statement still ringing in the air.

His eyes flash and for a second she wonders if her challenge has been unwise, if his petulant nature will lead him to snarl and snap and flee. Perhaps months ago it would have. Perhaps he'd choke out another insult, falling back to childish snark and word barbs aimed at her gender, her profession, her past and his unearned knowledge of it. Perhaps he'd simply disappear, leaving her plans unfulfilled and body aching.

Her hand holds the knife steady as she studies his face, unreadable in the dark light, the only sound his low breathing. The heat in the apartment in stifling, her only respite glaring down at her furiously, viciously.

Hungrily.

She shifts slightly and suddenly the stillness disappears. One cold hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back as the other knocks away the knife with little hesitation. He pulls her closer to his face, the height difference forcing her en pointe as his words come out in a ragged, harsh whisper.

"And if I have a different use for your mouth?"

It sounds like a question but she still swallows thickly, feeling his erection straining against her hip through his pants. She schools her face into a calmer mask.

So simple, such a plain and pretty trap, such an opportunity.

"Such as?"

He begins to move her backwards, her feet scrambling to keep up as he strides to her bedroom, turning to slam her against the closed door, a grin on his face as the movement forces a grunt from her chest.

An approving smirk as he draws her closer, lips grazing hers as he utters one word.

"Kneel."

If only one order had ever been given in the history of the universe, it was this. She feels heat coil in her stomach, inhaling sharply at the intensity of his eyes.

She finds herself pushed down, suppressing a sigh of disappointment as his clothing vanishes. Intricacy and beauty of Asgardian armour was one thing, but the lean body encased in that suit had been quite a sight.

The disappointment fades instantly when she hits the floor, the sensation of icy skin against her heated torso forcing a moan from her lips.

She looks up to where he's leaning against her dresser, broad shoulders and flat planes of muscle. He lacks his brother's bulk but not presence; the muscled leanness highlighted in the shadows of her darkened bedroom, eyes flashing from where he towers above her.

She holds his gaze and reaches up, slipping her hands over strong thighs, nails trailing over hipbones and skimming up iliac crests. It's like sliding her fingertips over ice, the sensation a relief from the suffocating air. She sees him grit his teeth as she draws her heated cheek along the same path, refusing to drop her eyes from his as her hand wraps around the base of his thick cock.

As her lips close around him his head tips back, a groan slipping through clenched teeth as his hand returns to tangle in her hair. She smiles around him, taking her time to draw in his icy length, cold and rock hard. Her jaw twinges at the intrusion, the length and thickness above what she's used to by any means.

She continues to watch his free hand gripping the dresser top, his stomach muscles clenching as she gags on his length. A moan escapes her throat, humming against him as she works him harder. She's overwhelmed, the feel of his cool leg against her torso, breasts pressing against hard flesh, the feel of his hand tangling and tightening in her hair, icy and unforgiving, sending heat pooling between her legs once more. She grips him tightly, desperate for the respite his cool body brings, another groan vibrating in her throat.

"Fuck."

She's never heard him swear before, the word sounding like a throwing knife in his cultured voice. She looks up again to find his eyes locked on her, the sight of full pink lips encasing his length turning his eyes black as his pupils blow out. Sharp cheekbones are made sharper when he sucks in a breath, and she mimics the sight by hollowing her cheeks and releasing him with an obscene pop.

The height difference means she can't lower herself, leaving her knees aching as she lets her nails sink into muscular ass cheeks.

She grinds her torso against him tightly, immediately going back to work as the hand in her hair begins to change from a tight grip to movements in time with her wet sucking. She pumps him with one hand, making a show of holding his eyes as the other slips down his leg and over her own waist.

The stool beside her knocks against her shoulder as she shifts subtly.

"_People don't change."_

_Thor's smile is sharp. _

"_Had you ever truly believed that, no person in this room would be considered a hero."_

_Fury's single eye was narrowed._

"_This is not the time to quibble over semantics. What you're saying, what you're asking me to believe…you understand it's insane, right?"_

_Thor glanced around the room. _

"_I understand why this would be hard to believe-"_

_His statement was cut short as Clint pushed his chair back far too quickly, striding out of the room without looking back. Bruce shot a glance a Natasha, who shook her head._

_No need to follow, she'd see him soon enough._

_Thor swallowed but continued, and Natasha took a moment to appreciate what maturity had done to his face. So much of his fresh joy was tempered now by something darker, but his fierce belief was no less evident. She felt a pang of envy at his faith, immediately doused by her cynicism. _

_Natasha let her mind drift as Thor reinterated his story, only coming back to the room once the demi-god had left and 9 eyes all focused on her._

_Maria's voice was clipped and professional as always._

"_Sir, do you believe this?"_

_Fury shook his head. "No. Maybe. I don't know. But I know Thor believes it."_

_Stark snorted. "Yeah, well, he's always been quick to want to see the best in little brother psychopath. Who, by the way, I think Clint would have preferred stay dead."_

_Bruce was watching Natasha carefully as he addressed the room. _

"_Bag of cats aside, he could have gotten away with this without Thor knowing. Could have continued pretending to be dead, enjoyed the throne without any hindrances except the necessity of staying in Odin's form." _

_Steve shook his head. _

"_It's not enough. There's too much we don't know for sure." His brow was furrowed as he continued. "Even if it's true, even if the information is good, no one here is going to believe it just on Thor's word."_

_It obviously pained him to say it, which didn't make it any less true._

_The room was silent for a moment. Not one inhabitant doubted Thor's belief; they just doubted the justification._

_Fury finally nodded._

"_Which is why we're going to need to find out for ourselves."_

_Bruce, having already guessed Fury's play, continued to study Natasha._

"_Will it work?"_

_The Black Widow nodded once, slowly._

"_I think so."_

_Tony shook his head. _

"_No offence, Tasha, because I've seen you in action myself…but haven't you already played the mind game angle on Loki?"_

_Steve nodded in agreement._

"_That's true," he said. "It's not going to be so easy to get the jump on him this time. I don't even know how you'd go about arranging a sit down."_

_Natasha's eyes met Fury's, already well aware that he wasn't asking her to employ just one of her skill sets at this particular time. Her boss' expression was unreadable, but they both knew what was at stake here._

_Both knew what had to be done._

_Fury's voice was calm and careful as he spoke._

"_Don't think a sit down is going to be our best angle here." His eye locked with Natasha's. "You know I wouldn't ask-"_

_He was silenced by a wave of her hand, dismissive and uncaring of the sentiment. He should have known, of all people, that she has no issues with the morality or use of any of her skill sets. But she still needed a plan._

"_What can you give me?"_

_The vial was small, inconspicuous, but she's wasn't fool enough to underestimate the contents. A quick glance at Banner confirmed that this particular concoction had been tested, and that meant more than any other lab tech's involvement. _

_The larger box he placed on the table, however, was somewhat more reassuring. She flicked open the lid, an unspoken question as she regarded the contents._

_Stark sighed. "They'll hold. Thor reckons they're designed to suppress and contain. I haven't found a flaw in them."_

_Steve's voice was quiet. "He…he knows?"_

_Bruce chuckled darkly. _

"_He's not stupid; he knows SHIELD will need more information before consenting to anything," he said, watching Natasha's face remain cool and passive, a sure sign she was working to hide the true nature of her involvement from the others. "But I doubt he has all the details."_

_Fury shook his head._

"_He knows we'll need to question, doesn't know quite how we'll go about it."_

_Natasha ran slim fingers over the metal in the case, feeling the coolness seep into her fingertips._

_Steve, for all of his tactical ability, was still not grasping the core concept._

"_If the mind angle won't work again, why are we sending in Natasha?"_

_She looked up, brow quirking slightly, another pang of guilt appearing in her stomach as she removed the last of his naiveté._

"_To cloud his mind."_

Head tipped back, fingers tangling tighter, breathing erratic and other hand gripping the dresser top hard enough to dent. She enjoys the power on her knees, the way his eyes find hers and lock on intensely, expression warring between pained and agonised as she brings him closer and closer to the edge.

The words came faster now, a heady mix of English ("Fuck..your mouth…lips…"), Latin ("Lupa…Cupio te meam mentulam sugare…Et possidebunt te...Ducam te undique"), what she thinks is Norse and another language she assumes they speak on Asgard. His cultured voice is rough, words interrupted by pants, groans, hisses and growls.

More heat pools between her legs as her rhythm speeds up.

His sounds are punctuated by her own, mewling and groaning against him as she sucked all of him, gagging on his length again and again, allowing her free hand to briefly skim against her heated core before slipping under the stool.

His control vanishes as he begins to thrust, his hand securing her hair, forcing her to dig in nails and reset the pace. Icy blue eyes hold hers as she relishes the cold length of him in her mouth, of his body pressed against her own, and as her eyes lock on his she watches his lips form her name.

"Natasha."

A prayer as his head tips back and he tumbles over the edge.

The cool semen spurted into her mouth and she swallows greedily as his muscles quake. She brings her other hand from under the stool-

*CLICK*

The sound echoes through the room as she gives herself a moment to enjoy his satiated shock, licking the last remnants of him from her lips, swallowing thickly and smiling as she stands. He's slouched against the bench, eyes hooded as he slowly comes back to himself.

She watches the slow realisation, the way his head cocks to one side as he becomes aware of the heavy cuffs locking his hands behind his back.


End file.
